


Point of Curiosity

by FernWinter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Late Night Conversations, Multi, Multiple Origins, Multiple Wardens (Dragon Age), Pre-Relationship, Purple Warden, not yet a romance, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 10:49:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12933666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernWinter/pseuds/FernWinter
Summary: Nazair Tabris is one of several Grey Wardens who have survived Ostagar. During their efforts to defeat the archdemon and the darkspawn and a few power-hungry usurpers, their not-so-merry band of misfits has stumbled over a dozen murderous idiots who genuinely thought they could harm them - but only one has stayed, both alive and in their service. He owes his life to Nazair.Zevran wonders what will happen after the end of all things, when the Blight is vanquished.Nazair is not sure if it will ever be, vanquished that is, and does not believe in holding people to never-ending oaths.





	Point of Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, reader...
> 
> This is my first venture into the realms of Dragon-Age-fanfiction, as a writer at least. I forgot that my brain likes to spawn new characters as if they were empty spaces on a cookie tray, and now I have a multiple-wardens-from-multiple-origins verse, featuring Nazair and Natia Tabris, Yvren Aeducan, Sorcha Amell, a male Cousland and Mahariel and an older-Warden Surana. They do not all appear here, but maybe it's a start.  
> Also, some of the dialogue is part of the actual in-game conversation. Apart from the parts where Nazair is what Hawke-conoisseurs will recognise as PURPLE.
> 
> And now for something completely different: the story.

Nazair Tabris has seen magic knit muscles together like strings, and sculpt flesh into form like clay. In the last few weeks, he has watched Aeridan and Wynne mend cuts and bites and burns, mould bones together and put intestines back in their place. He has to admit that it is a fascinating spectacle, whether they are removing a bolt from Aedan Cousland's thigh or closing a viciously bleeding wound on Yvren Aeducan's brow.

 

He also knows how _strange_ it feels; like sparkles running through his veins, like a faint shiver coursing through his body every time he moves. Nazair lies in his tent and stares at the canvas and tries not to twitch. He has not been conscious for the healing itself – all he remembers is Surana warning them about a group of darkspawn hard on their trail, and the breathlessness of a fight, and pain exploding in his left shoulder. It feels numb, now, and his arm is bend over his chest and secured with stained bandages.

He assumes that they've won that encounter purely based on the absence of anyone at his bedside. If there were any reasons to be concerned, his sister Natia would wait by his side to give him the bad news. If there were any reasons to be concerned about Natia, the others would be wise enough to tell him as soon as he woke up. But they have granted him privacy, a few hours alone in a tent usually shared by three, and he decides not to worry.

 

He manages to turn his head and locate his daggers, lying next to his discarded belt on a pile of leather and quilted fabric. Then his reflection in one of the blades catches his eye, and he grimaces. There are dark circles under his eyes and his lips are chafed from biting. He looks too pale, even against the tarnished white of the bandage wrapped around his shoulder, like a cold marble statue drained of all its colour; only his flaming red hair gleams in the firelight shining through the waxed linen canvas, fanned out over the freckles that paint a map of the night sky on his skin.

 

“Shit.” he mutters. The wound does not hurt, now, but he has probably lost a lot of blood. If he could only remember –

 

Something whines outside of his tent, something bulky and four-legged. One of his friends' mabari hounds must have picked up his cursing; he can see its shape through the canvas, outlined by the light of the campfire. Moments later, the tent flaps open and a figure slides in between them, a slim shadow stepping closer without making a sound.

 

Nazair watches him crouch down, extend a hand, and brush tan fingers over the freckles on his shoulder, connecting each to another and drawing a slow, intricate pattern. He is not sure why he is not surprised that it is him, not Natia, who has come to check on him – maybe they have given him too much elfroot, and now he is too high on the bitter liquid to wonder about it.

 

“Fool.” Zevran says matter-of-factly.

 

Natia has called him that, too, after Nazair had cut the ropes binding the assassin's wrists and then sheathed his daggers all those weeks ago. She has not intervened in any other way, however, only hissed that she would not be so merciful if anything should happen to her brother and turned on her heels to go and search the corpses of his men for valuables. Nazair is perfectly aware of the fact that her sisterly dedication is genuine, and that she would drown the world in blood for him. As he would do just the same for her, he is glad that her threats have lost their edge in the past few weeks. They are almost a sign of fondness now.

 

“A dedicated one.” he confirms with a weak smile. “But I am still breathing, so I don't think-”

 

“How very fortunate.” Zevran interrupts, and makes a sound that is almost a laugh. A grin tugs at his lips as he bends over Nazair, his hand moving until he can tilt his chin up a little to examine him. He will see what Nazair has seen; tired eyes in an alarmingly pale face. “And you are still talking back, which is a sign that you are feeling good, no? The mages said you would need a lot of rest for your body to deal with the healing process. That beast almost took your arm off, you know?”

 

“I don't, actually.” says Nazair, shrugs and then curses because that movement actually _does_ hurt. _Almost took you arm of_ , he thinks, _is a very unsettling description_.

Zevran's fingers tighten on his chin and he looks worried, for a moment, before he lets go of it and carefully places his hand on Nazair's chest. Its warmth seeps into his skin through the bandages, rising and falling with every breath. He knows that in his line of work, Zevran has had to become used to the constant threat of losing someone – on missions, to a poisoning, in a staged tavern brawl turned ugly. It is strange that he has come to his bedside now; Nazair is not sure whether he can deal with what it means to him, or to Zevran, that he's apparently become someone lose-able.

 

“Well,” he finally says playfully after the silence draws on just this side of too long, “no stabbing me dead while I can't defend myself?”

 

The other elf laughs, a low, warm sound. It resonates through Nazair, a pleasant shiver from the place just above his heart where Zevran's touch connects them down to the points of his toes. He likes most of the sounds Zevran makes, the soft Antivan lilt in every word – his voice, admittedly, has been one of the reasons he had been drawn to him at first. “You obviously manage to get stabbed all by yourself, Warden. I am sure our pretty lay sister could tell the story far more eloquently, but alas, I will have to do. I saw you throwing your knifes – a terrible habit, really, how do you slash things without your blades?”

 

“Determination.” he mutters and squirms a little under the blanket. Zevran's hand presses down lightly on his chest, and Nazair stills immediately.

 

“You were determined to retrieve your dagger, yes.” Zevran continues smoothly. “You tried to yank it out of a dead archer and stumbled… I do not think you noticed the hurlock behind you until it buried its blade in your shoulder. Rather gracelessly, I might add. Our fearless, cultured leader cursed like a dockworker when he saw the wound.”

There is no need to dwell on that thought, on the image of his broken body maimed and bloody and face-first in the dust. Nazair banishes it to a very far-away corner of his mind before it can twist into another, showing his sister in a similar situation. They are so alike; it is not hard to imagine their places interchanged.

 

“Did any of the others get hurt?”

 

“The others are quite fine. Do not worry, Warden, they were arguing as fervently as ever when I left them at the campfire.” His sister and Cousland, most likely. Natia does not only dislike the human noble; she hates him with every fibre of her being. They constantly snarl at each other, and Nazair has had to intervene more than once before his sister could successfully demonstrate her very own knife-throwing skills.

Leliana occasionally serves as a distraction, too, drawing Natia's attention with a curious story or an old song. Just as he does, late at night, when she wakes from a nightmare and slips under his blankets, shivering from the cold like the frightened little girl he remembers from _before_. He weaves endless fantastic tales in the dark of the night, of elven heroes and far-away lands, until she falls asleep again. Maybe it is the familiarity, maybe it is something more – he does not care what his sister and the bard are up to as long as it keeps her happy, and at least partially sane.

 

“As for the hurlock,” Zevran adds slowly, his amber eyes burning into Nazair's blue ones, “I killed it.”

 

Suddenly Nazair feels freezing cold creeping through his veins instead of the subtle tingle of magic, and a stutter in his heartbeat like a sharp, painful jerk in his chest. Then it pounds on, twice as fast – the Antivan must feel it. _How embarrassing_ , Nazair thinks, and struggles to regain control over his expression. He has learned years ago how to guard his face, how to deceive others with a mask made out of his very own skin and bones and flesh.

Natia has never cared to hide her own short temper, to conceal any emotion. She would laugh if she could see him now, struggling to seem undisturbed.

 

“You killed it.” he repeats flatly. _You saved my life_ goes unsaid.

 

Months ago, the Antivan had been nothing more than another enemy, whether he was dressed like one of Loghain's soldiers or not. It was just another ambush, not even the first in that week, and Nazair had shrugged of his ragged cloak and drawn his daggers without thinking too much of it. Their not-so-merry band of misfits had just left Kinloch Hold, and after the horrors they had seen there an ordinary fight with a few hired murderers seemed almost a relief.

His opponent had proven to be very resilient, though, and when a well-timed kick had pressed the air out of his lungs and sent Nazair tumbling to the ground, he had felt the first flicker of doubt. The rest of the fight was a blur in his memories, clashing daggers and a fast, deadly dance. The assassin had pinned him down in the end, but they had both worn each other out. Sweaty and bleeding they had rolled through the dirt, until Nazair had felt a cool blade against his throat, like a line of ice pressed against his skin. “The Crows send their regards,” the Antivan had hissed with an almost satisfied grin. It looked good on him, Nazair had thought, just before he had snarled “Fuck the damn Crows!” and watched Cousland bring his shield down hard against the back of the assassin's head.

 

They had not, to everybody's mild frustration, gotten to that part yet. Nazair had not spared the assassin for his looks, but that did not prevent either of them from flirting with each other rather outrageously. Words and looks and smiles, sometimes touches. None have lead to anything more, but he has grown used to them. And now, with Zevran's debt repaid…

There is only silence for a few strained moments, as he tries to process the thought of a new day, a new fight without the Antivan at their side. He has come to rely on the other elf, on their daggers dancing to similar tunes. The others would probably call him a valuable ally, but Nazair considers the assassin a friend, at the least.

 

He bites his lip and grimaces. With any luck, Zevran will mistake it for a side-effect of the pain or the elfroot. But the Antivan has watched him so carefully all the time; he has been trained to see through people's masks just as well as to cut their throats.

 

“Well,” he finally says and smiles lightly, “do I have to save one of your limbs now, too, in order to makes us even?”

 

Zevran chuckles and Nazair releases a breath he hasn't realised he was holding, relieved that the usual light tone still works just the same as always. He has waited too long, though, and he knows that the other elf has noticed it. Nevertheless, the Antivan grins at him as he crosses his legs to sit down more comfortably, and then cocks his head. _Almost bird-like_ , Nazair thinks, _almost like a real crow_.

 

“I have been… meaning to ask you something, Warden.”

 

He sounds hesitant, all of a sudden, as he crosses his arms over his chest. The smile is gone, but his amber eyes are still watching Nazair intently, as if he tries to estimate his reaction. When he doesn't continue, Nazair gives a tiny little nod. He can't bear the tension between them – or at least _this_ kind of tension between them. It seems like they both know they're on thin ice where this particular topic is concerned.

 

“Go ahead… ask.”

 

“I am well aware that it has been your word against the others', back when we met. You decided to spare me despite your brothers in arms, your commander and even your sister warning you not to. So I swore that oath to you, and I understand that quest you're on is all fine and well. But I am wondering about what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a… point of curiosity.”

 

Of all the things Zevran could have asked, this is not what Nazair has expected. The Antivan has had a lot of chances to run during fights, and said he was safer with them, at the moment, when Cousland has asked why he didn't. The Crows would just assume he was dead – they would not know the kind of mercy the Grey Wardens have shown him.

It is a difficult question. Nazair does not know what the right answer is; or he does, but not all of it. The others might want the right to object in this, too. Most of them do not dislike the assassin anymore, whether they trust him or not. They might want to keep him around, or to grand him freedom, but Nazair cannot say who would vote for what. So he pulls his lips into a grin, aiming for sultry, and purrs: “Is this after I ravish you in celebration?”

 

Zevran understands, he always does – maybe because he, too, deflects questions with compliments and diverts attention from himself by hitting on others. His answering smile is just as suggestive.

 

“Of course it is afterwards. The ravishing part is a given.” he drawls. That voice does things to Nazair. He is very happy that his blanket covers them, because this is really not the time. Despite their smiles, despite their flirting, it means a lot that Zevran has come to _him_ for this.

 

“One simply assumes,” Zevran continues before he can answer him and get their conversation back on track, “once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin following you about. Am I wrong?”

 

 _It all boils down to this_ , Nazair thinks, _this tiny, littl_ _e 'if'_ _no one dares to mention_. It is not as hopeless as it could be, of course; they have the support of the mages, Bann Teagan's assurance that Redcliffe will be ready for a war, and treaties to enlist the help of the dwarves and the Dalish. Their group is strong, even if it is bound by necessity and duty rather than affection for each other. But they have two enemy armies to fight, and neither Loghain nor the darkspawn seem open to non-violent negotiations. If the Blight doesn't destroy Ferelden, a civil war might just as well do so. There is no guarantee that they'll all make it until the end, _if_ this is ever finished.

Nazair has not dared to think of a future – not after what happened in Denerim, not after Ostagar, not with the taint in his blood.

 

“There's always a use for a handsome elf, me probably included – a dagger in the dark, an ally at our side. I already dragged Natia down with me when Duncan recruited me to keep her safe, however, and look where it's brought us. I'll not hold you to your oath. Leave whenever you like… we are even now, aren't we?”

 

Zevran blinks. He seems confused, for a second, then smiles. It is more open this time, almost honest, as if he has genuinely not expected him to say that. His arms unfold and he clears his throat, straightening as if a great weight has been taken off his shoulders. There is determination in his eyes, and a new certainty in his voice when he speaks: “Oh, a life for a life, is that how it is? I made that oath willingly, Warden, and you need not protect me from it like your sister. But if that is how you see it… all the better. For the moment I will stay, considering my standing with the Crows.”

 

Nazair almost melts into his bedroll as relief washes over him. He has not even realised how tense his body has grown in the past few minutes – and he laughs it away even now, letting his head fall back and staring at the canvas roof in order to escape those far too observant amber eyes.

 

“Good.” he says with an entirely too wide grin.

 

“It will scar.” Zevran answers, back to his usual light tone and seemingly out of context. His hand moves back to Nazair's shoulder, carefully brushing over the bandages. He does not explain whether he means the all-but-forgotten wound or their conversation, and Nazair does not really care. It is neither his first nor his worst scar, anyway.

He closes his eyes and feels warm, calloused fingertips against his skin, feather-light strokes moving towards his throat. There is a thin, white line where the Antivan's blade has marked him. Nazair holds his breath as Zevran touches it, and tries to ignore his breeches suddenly growing too tight. The tension between them shifts again, from uncomfortable to _this_ , through no more than a touch. He can almost hear Alistair asking them to go find some privacy, blushing a furious red, and Natia and Leliana's breathless giggles – but they are not here, they cannot see, this time.

 

“But let's assume,” he hears Zevran mutter tentatively, “that I didn't desire to leave, when the time came. What then?”

 

Fingers around his throat should not be so distracting to Nazair, at least not in _that_ way. He finds it difficult to concentrate, and he does not really want to answer; it might not be what Zevran wants to hear, and he might go. Then again, he has always been honest with him where his desires were concerned. It is merely the fun of the game that has prevented them from going any further yet, on Nazair's part. He always wonders who of them will act first, who will take their ridiculously explicit flirting one step further.

In this he can be honest, too. Zevran is a brother in arms he does not want to miss in a fight, a friend he does not want to lose, and he knows that the Crows are not the only reason for him to stay. Their dance has switched from daggers to phrases, but they are both still able to see through each others' feints.

 

“I have to keep an eye on Natia.” Nazair says and sighs. It is the truth: his sister is dangerous and there are not many who can keep her from finally descending fully into insanity. It doesn't mean that he won't have any time to spare for other things, just as he does know, but it is an obligation he is not going to neglect. “They are all caught up in politics – between royalty and magic and the restoration of the Grey Wardens' reputation – but if it hadn't been for that bastard kidnapping my sister and the others, I would still be working security at a brothel. I do not know where _I_ will go after the Blight.”

 

“I would argue for revisiting the brothel, first. There are so many things one can do in one.”

 

“My friends are welcome to accompany me, you know.”

 

Zevran laughs softly. It is not mocking, Nazair realises, and he smiles. There is no need to discuss this further as long as the possibility of all of them dying tomorrow is still very much on the table. But the offer stands; including all its conditions and what-ifs.

 

“It is… good to know what my options might be.” he finally says and Nazair resists the urge to turn it into yet another innuendo. He is tired again, and he assumes that they have used some of his own energy to heal his shoulder. Surana has explained it to him once upon an evening at the campfire; he cannot afford to pour all his mana into one of them, in case of another attack and another grave injury, so he has to stretch his resources thin, providing each of his patients with just enough magic to ease their self-healing process. _Just like our work as Wardens_ , he had joked with a bitter smile, _now that so few of us are left_.

 

Nazair feels stretched, too, between what was and what is and all the what-ifs of tomorrow. He never allows himself to show this kind of weariness in front of the others, Natia especially, and suspects that Zevran acts just the same most of the time, trained not to show any weakness to an audience.

 

Trust is a strange thing.

 

It makes him take a deep breath and close his eyes again, and his heartbeat calms as he realises that the Antivan does not move to get up. He just tugs his blankets up a little higher. Maybe Zevran just does it because it wouldn't do for a Grey Warden to die of something as simple as a cold, but it still feels nice to be looked after for once.

As he drifts away, he thinks that he has forgotten something.

 

“Thank you.” Nazair mutters, already half asleep.

 

Zevran hums softly and draws another pattern on his freckles.


End file.
